Flowers
by SaphiraAzure2708
Summary: Soukoku Angst Week 2019 #skkangstwk2k19 Day 1: [Flowers] or "We need to Talk" Chuuya doesn't know where the flowers on his desk come from. Until one day, they stop coming. Posted for #skkangstwk2k19


**Soukoku Angst Week 2019 – Day 1: ****Flowers**** or "We need to talk"**

Chuuya frowns at the flowers on his desk. They'd been there when he first came into the office, and asking his subordinates hadn't given him any clue about the sender. There was no note to accompany them either, just a plain black ribbon wrapped around the red geraniums placed in the center of the brown mahogany wood. With a shrug, he moves them to the side of the desk, inhaling the flowery scent with a faint smile. Whoever the sender was, they had good taste.

* * *

The flowers keep on coming, day by day, after that first time. They vary, both in color and type. Chuuya thinks there must be some sort of message hidden in the flowers, but he can't really be bothered to figure it out – being an executive takes up most of his time, and he really doesn't want to spoil his enjoyment of the flowers, so he just accepts them as a part of his life. He does keep one flower from each bouquet, though. Pressed between the pages of a book he'd bought to keep them, each as lovely as the first time he'd received them.

On an off day, he decides to catalogue each flower, writing down its name in a list that grows with each bouquet he receives. Geraniums, anemones, petunias, snapdragons, marigolds, pink larkspurs, hydrangeas; they fill the first pages of the book, and Chuuya suppresses the urge to check what they mean – he'd seen the looks that the florists sent him when he walked by, all shocked and disapproving and shaking heads.

But the later pages are filled with flowers that had those same florists smiling and pointing and giggling, which leaves Chuuya self-conscious and wondering about _their_ meaning: bittersweet, purple hyacinths, variegated tulips, acacia blossoms, magenta zinnias, azalea, red carnations, striped carnations, daffodils, jonquils, primroses, stocks, blue violets.

He still looks forward to the flowers every day, handling each bouquet with care as he places them in the vase he'd bought on the third day of the secret flowers. His subordinates seem happier as well, popping by his office to see the flowers on his desk – even Akutagawa had poked his head in once, black eyes blinking curiously at the flowers before giving him a nod hello.

Ane-san doesn't seem that happy, though – but that's probably because she actually knows the language of flowers. She's taken to arriving early to try and catch the culprit in action, but so far, the mysterious flower-giver has been two steps ahead of her. Chuuya tells her he doesn't mind the flowers, and she gives him a hard stare before sighing and giving the endeavour up.

So days go by, and Chuuya's flower collection grows.

* * *

Until one day.

There is a war between Port Mafia, the ADA and another organization, some foreign group who thinks they can waltz in and take over Yokohama. The fights are brief, violent, blood and bodies left in alleys for the police to play cleanup. Boss and the ADA's President call a truce between their two groups, and Chuuya finds himself in a team with Akutagawa, Nakajima, and, of course, _Dazai_ . Theirs is probably one of the most volatile groups ever, both Soukoku and Shin Soukoku arguing with each other on every single mission they're sent on. It's only with the help of the flowers that appear without fail on his desk everyday that keeps him from exploding, and the lack of using Corruption.

But then.

There's one final fight with the enemy organization, a long, drawn-out one that lasts far into the night. All players are on the field this time, all weapons and Abilities out and present to do battle. Mori's called for him to use Corruption again, withdrawing the Port Mafia, and he. Just breathes. And calls for the true form of his ability once more.

"_Oh Grantors of Dark Disgrace, Do Not Wake Me Again!"_

After that, the battle is a blur. He vaguely remembers tearing through metal and flesh, blood (Was it his? Was it theirs?) dripping from his hands and down his face. Faintly remembers flashes of blue and red in the corner of his eyes, a devastating force (enough to match his own, actually) tearing through the enemy just as he does. Remembers finishing off the last of the enemy, of his power still surging, still breaking down his body like a wave through a sandcastle. Of lashing out, of screams still echoing through the battlefield even though all the enemy are dead and gone.

Vividly remembers a hand touching his arm, Corruption dropping away for him to gasp in a breath of untainted air. Blue eyes closing and then opening, only to see his hand buried in something dark. He looks up on reflex. He regrets it immediately.

"Da..zai?"

The bandage waster coughs, still gripping his arm to stop him from pushing his hand any further into his torso. Like puppets with strings cut, they both drop to the ground, Chuuya releasing his grip on something _slimy_ and trying to pull his hand out, only for Dazai to cry out in pain. He's panicking, everyone's panicking, shouts and screams around them as Chuuya tries desperately to stop the flow of blood, to pull his hand _out and away from next to Dazai's heart, oh my god, his __heart,__ Dazai, please, don't die, you'll be alright, please, Dazai, I'm sorry, Dazai, please, please stay awake, Dazai, Dazai, DAZAI –_

"S..sorry, Ch-Chuuya, I guess this is, the end of the line for me," Dazai chokes out, his other hand coming up to grasp at Chuuya's face. His brown eyes look _alive_. "Never..did get that, that double suicide after all.."

"..'love you, Chuuya." The hand falls slack. Chuuya screams.

Dazai's face is still smiling.

* * *

At the funeral, Nakajima comes up to him, holding a bouquet of flowers.

"Da, Dazai-san ordered these for you, Nakahara-san. It was meant for, meant for today's gift." Chuuya stares at the flowers. Then he takes it, murmuring a thanks to the boy. He doesn't attend the rest of the ceremony.

Instead, he heads home, pulling out the book of pressed flowers that started from months ago. Pulls up a website on his phone about the language of flowers, and pieces the puzzle together.

Geraniums. Stupidity. Anemones. Forsaken. Petunias. Resentment. Snapdragons. Deception. Marigolds. Jealousy. Pink larkspurs. Fickleness. Hydrangeas. Heartlessness. He works through the first pages, writing the words down. Then he moves on to the later ones.

Bittersweet. Truth. Purple hyacinths. I am sorry. Variegated tulips. Beautiful eyes. Acacia blossoms. Concealed love. Magenta zinnias. Lasting affection. Azalea. Take care of yourself for me. Red carnations. My heart aches for you. Striped carnations. Wish I could be with you. Daffodils. You're the only one. Jonquils. Love me. Primroses. I can't live without you. Stocks. You'll always be beautiful to me. Blue violets. Faithfulness.

And then, finally, he reaches the last bouquet.

Forget-me-nots. True love. Red camellias. You're a flame in my heart. A single red rose. I love you. And… a spider flower. Elope with me.

Chuuya sits there alone in his apartment, surrounded by flowers. He picks up the ribbon around the last bouquet, fingers tracing and slipping into the ring that it was tied around. He presses his lips to the smooth metal, silent tears dripping from his eyes.

"I do."


End file.
